


Heavy Lies the Crown

by SinCitysGreatestHits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anglo-Irish Relations, Arranged Marriage, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Allison Argent, BAMF Lydia Martin, Cheating, Eventual Romance, Execution, Extramarital Affairs, Genius Lydia Martin, Historical Inaccuracy, International Relations, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance, Royalty, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski Loves Lydia Martin, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinCitysGreatestHits/pseuds/SinCitysGreatestHits
Summary: Líadan Máirtín of Ireland has been planning this from the beginning.  Firey and headstrong, she wrangles together a marriage with Prince Jackson of England, and gives herself an English name, Lydia.  However, when Lydia discovers the dark side of English high society, she finds herself falling in with the castle servants, a French huntswoman, the Japanese governess' daughter, and the Polish son of a liquor merchant who looks at her like she holds all the stars in the sky...





	1. Do Call Me Lydia

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my British Isles Politics AU. No disrespect is meant to any Scottish, Irish, Welsh, or English person. I'll just be publishing the first chapter for now, let me know what you think!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia goes to England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins

Líadan Máirtín was standing by the window of her bedroom, looking down at the shore. A shepherd had brought his sheep to graze, scattered about the hillside like rocks in a stream, flowing down to the sea. The grass rustled in the cool afternoon breeze, parting to reveal little wildflowers, peeking out like tiny Seelie treasures. In the distance, the great grey sea reached out to touch a vast blue sky. If she closed her eyes, Líadan could her the seals barking in the harbor. Suddenly, heartache swelled inside her like the tide at night. If everything went according to plan, she would never see this place again.

Líadan steeled her nerves. She had been preparing for this her whole life; her marriage to Prince Jackson of England. She had put all her effort into impressing him when he had visited, written could letters, don't everything in her power to make this match a success. She was making her way in the world, slowly clawing her way towards the hidden fantasy she had kept all these years. England was just the first step.

"Milady, your carriage is here," came a small voice behind her. Líadan turned and smiled. It was Meredith, shy, sweet Meredith. Meredith was coming with her to England; she would be Líadan's last connection to her home.

"Well, we musn't keep them waiting," she responded firmly, striding past her towards the doors. Meredith followed silently, her head bowed.

As they passed through the halls, whispers echoed behind. Líadan didn't know what they were saying, and she didn't care. She marching towards a fate she had organized, a life of her own design. How many could claim the same? Her mother certainly couldn't. Neither could any of her former ladies in waiting. Not even Meredith had chosen her own path.

Her mother was waiting by the door. After a brief hug, and a promise to write, Loading stepped out of the castle, and practically floated towards the carriage.

A lone young man was perched by the wheel, and offered her a hand to step inside. Líadan accepted it graciously, and settled herself facing the horses. She had always found horses undeniably facinating. Meredith settled next to her, silent as a mouse. The man settled in his seat, and snapped the reins of the horses, starting them off.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know much about England. I'm afraid we've never been," Líadan asked politely, thinking that, Meredith scarcely talked, and the carriage ride was two days, she ought to establish some kind of repertoire if she didn't want to die of boredom.

"Indeed, I work in the castle, tending the animals, milady," he responded casually. He spoke with a thick Scottish brogue, and had shaggy brown hair and skin tanned from the sun. "Scott McCall, pleased to make your acquaintance. And what may I call you?"

Líadan thought about that. She was going to be an English princess, maybe even a queen. She was leaving her country, culture, and way of life behind, adopting new ideas, new values, new mannerisms. Perhaps she needed a new name.

"Please call me Lydia," she said finally.

* * *

 


	2. Morrighan, My Lady, My Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia travels to England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, Líadan Máirtín is pronounced LEE-dan m-ERT-n, it's a Gaelic form of Lydia Martin.  
> This chapter's a lot longer, but I think it's pretty good, so enjoy!

The carriage ride was interminable.  Meredith, in all her shy glory, refused to make much more than a passing comment.  Scott, Lydia's only hope for salvation, remained mostly silent, and shot down every attempt at conversation by Lydia.  She was beginning to suspect he was frightened by her.

The thought made her laugh.  Imagine, Líadan Máirtín, a force to be reckoned with!  Well, maybe in Ireland she had been simple, but she wasn't in Ireland anymore.  They had crossed the massive stone bridge into Wales ages ago.  Besides, she was Lydia now, Princess of England, and Lydia  _would_ be a force to be reckoned with.  

"Scott McCall," she announced firmly, "talk to me."  Her voice left no room for argument or dissent.  That was an order, and Lydia relished it.

Scott swallowed visibly.  "I-i'm sorry, milady.  I'm...not really supposed to talk to you.  You're only supposed to associate with nobilty."

Lydia fumed.  How dare he?  She was not a plaything, a toy that he could direct about as he pleased.  She was a human being, a noble with just as much power as he held.  

Meredith spoke suddenly.  "Tá Fuil de mo Fola orm, agus Cnámh mo Chona.

 

   


Tabharfaidh mé mo Chorp, go bhféadfadh muid a Dó a bheith ina hAon.

Tabharfaidh mé mo Spiorad, 'go mbeidh ár saol ar siúl.

Ní féidir liom a bheith agat mar go mbaineann mé liom féin

Ach cé gur mian linn araon é, tabhairim duit an méid atá uaim a thabhairt

Tá tú i gceannas orm, mar dhuine saor in aisce

Ach beidh mé ag freastal ort sna bealaí sin a theastaíonn uait agus beidh blas milse ag teacht ó mo lámh."

Lydia knew those words.  It was her parents wedding vows, the very words she and Meredith had so often recited to each other when they were very young and full of fantasies.

_Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone._  
_I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One._  
_I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done._

_You cannot possess me for I belong to myself_  
_But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give_  
_You cannon command me, for I am a free person_  
_But I shall serve you in those ways you require_  
_and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand_.

All her life, Lydia had imagined marriage as a union, rather than an arrangement.  And yet, here she waslistening to half-baked, jealous orders from a man she hadn't even been joined to, a man who thought he had the right to possess her even before the law gave him the slightest inkling of the idea.  No, this would never do.  Lydia had plan, and relinquishing her power had nothing to do with it.

"Are you Scottish?" she asked Scott, head held high and voice authoritative.

"Y-yes, miss.  Listen, I'm really-," he started.

"What was Scotland like?" Lydia interrupted.

"O-oh.  It was...it was mostly normal, I guess.  My mother ran an apothecary, she gathered all her own supplies.  My father walked out when I was small, so Mother got a divorce.  We kept chickens, a small garden.  It was always cloudy, but I liked it.  We lived in a province run by the Hales, and they we're pretty fair with taxes, so we did alright for ourselves."

Lydia leaned back and listened to Scott ramble on about Scotland.  Sun was hanging low in the sky, so eventually, Scott pulled over by a mid-sized castle, where they were going to spend the night.  Scott explained that they were old friends of Jackson's, and we're eager to meet her.  Lydia pulled on her best 'queen of all she surveys' face, and accepted Scott's assistance in stepping out of the carriage.

Two young men we're standing outside, waiting to greet her.  They were twins, and stood over half a foot taller than her.  Scott stepped forward to greet them.

"Aiden.  Ethan." They nodded to him, before returning their attentions to Lydia, who preened under their gaze.  Scott gestured for her to follow him, and skipped towards the massive double doors.

Flinging them open, he announced loudly, "May I present, _Bana-Phrionnsa_ Lydia Martin of Connacht!" Lydia registered the title he'd given her,  _princess_.  She'd forgotten that the Scots spoke Gaelic, too.

A young man about Scott's age was waiting to greet them.  He had trimmed, dark hair, and broad arms and shoulders.  He stepped forward with a wide smile on his face.

"So pleased to make your acquaintance!  I am Duke Daniel of Mahealani, but please, call me Danny." He bowed low to Lydia, and kissed her proffered hand.

"Aiden will show you to your quarters," he said easily, gesturing to Aiden.  Just behind her, Meredith and Scott exchanged an uneasy glance.  However, Danny ignored them, still smiling.  Aiden gestured towards the stairway, and Lydia took her leave.

"I'll send someone to fetch you for dinner," Danny called after them. Aiden continued to walk down the hallways, until he arrived at a large birch door and opened it.

Lydia stepped inside.  It was larger than she used to, brighter, too, but she decided that she quite liked it.  Aiden made to leave, but Lydia stopped him, almost on impulse.

"Does the Master have a wife?" Lydia asked.

Aiden smirked.  "Not officially.  However, he and my brother, Ethan, know each quite...biblically."

Lydia studied him intently.  His eyes were darker than they had been earlier, and smirk was wide and hungry.  She was suddenly struck with the choice she had.  He was here, offering, and she could say yes, defy her husband in the greatest way.  However, they weren't even married yet, and Lydia was trying to be optimistic.  She didn't want to doom an as-yet non-existent marriage.  That was the flip side of choice.  You could choose to say no, and it was still your choice.

"Thank you, Aiden.  That'll be all."

He stared at her, something like shock glimmering in his eyes.  Lydia payed him no heed; it was her right to say no, just as it was her right to say yes. Marriage would never take away her freedom.  Lydia turned her back to Aiden, pretending to be mesnerized by the decor.  Behind her, she heard Aiden's heavy steps leaving the room.  The door closed, and Lydia was left to her thoughts.  Outside, a bird burst into song.

* * *

Meredith came up to get Lydia after about an hour.  Lydia took some deeps breaths, composing herself, before following Meredith down the hallways and into the dining hall.

 

Danny was serving veal, an old favorite of Lydia's, and Irish mead.  Lydia sipped it gratefully, relishing in the honeyed taste of home.

"Where do you get your mead?  Do you have a supplier?" Lydia asked politely, after Ethan topped off her glass.  

Danny smiled apologetically.  " I buy from a merchant family; they live in London, but they pass by here on supply runs once or twice a year.  I'm afraid they won't be by for another three months or so."

"That's all well and fine; what family is it?  I'll be living in London; I ought to know my suppliers."

"They're Polish immigrants; the Stilinskis.  Last I heard, they were still supplying the Royal Palace, so you're in luck.  You might ask your driver about them," Danny said cheerfully.  The rest of the meal was mostly similar small talk, about the finery of Mahealani Castle, the silver plates on the wall, any subject that did not mention the Crown Prince of England.

Lydia supposed that, if Danny was the prince's best friend, his family was one with which she would brush elbows, so to speak.  He really was pleasant company; perhaps English high society would not be quite as restricting as she thought.

* * *

The next morning, as the sunlight streamed in the window, Lydia again stood by the window, peering down into the world.  Wales was quite different from Ireland.  Here, there were vast trees and mountains which she could scarcely believe they would cross.  It was not a sunny green, lightened by the great grey sea, but a dark green, like a rotting leaf, or a burnt emerald.  Sunlight filtered through the treetops, giving everything a kind of faerie glow.  Lydia wondered absentmindedly what England would look like.  Would it be green, like Wales?

"Your Highness, we must be setting off soon.  Are you dressed?" Meredith called in her soft, gentle voice.

"Of course, Meredith.  Are you excited?"

Meredith allowed herself a small smile and nodded.  Lydia smiled back, and walked towards the door.

"That's so funny; I seem to recall you being strongly against this match." Just behind her, Meredith's eyes darkened, but she said nothing.  Lydia couldn't decide if that was good or bad.

Once again, Scott offered Lydia a hand into the carriage, but Lydia declined, insisting that Meredith go first.  Perhaps the other side of the road would be more interesting. 

As she waited, Lydia examined the horses.  They were massive Clydesdales, with shimmering roan coats and long brown manes.  They were well-groomed, to the point where not even the flies recognized them to be horses.  As Lydia watched, one snorted loudly, shaking an ear.  Other than that, they stood still, perfectly trained.

"Did you train these horses?" Lydia asked Scott as he helped her into the carriage.  He smiled lightly, and nodded bashfully.

"I helped.  My master, Deaton, he did most of the harder stuff.  I'm just an apprentice."

"What's the Royal Palace like?" Lydia asked suddenly.  Scott slid into his seat on the carriage, snapping the reins of the horses.

"The Palace?  Well, it's big.  There used to be tons of servants there, but after the prince went into his 'paranoia' phase, a whole bunch were fired or executed.  Almost everyone who works there is Scottish, Erica says he's rubbing our conquest in our faces."

"Who works there?" Lydia asked curiously.  Meredith looked at her surruptiously, surprised.

"Well, there's about a dozen maids, led by Miss Erica Reyes.  Isaac Lahey is the only butler, yet somehow is there within three seconds of calling him.  Boyd's the head chef, he was a Moor who fought in some war he won't tell anyone about.  Malia Tate works with him, orders and buys everything in the Palace, and yet somehow never speaks to him.  The Yukimuras are the live-in tutors, his Majesty had them brought in all the way from East Asia, and the Argents are the princes huntsmen.  We've got a couple suppliers, merchants we favor, but only one lives full time in London."  

Scott rattled on for the rest of the carriage ride, as Lydia stared out the window at the huge mountains all around them.  Lydia had figured in would take them all day to cross, but it took just under two hours.  Scott continued to jabber on about the Palace maids, and how there were far too few of them to do a thorough job, and yet every positively sparkled, and  _this was witchcraft, damnit!_   Behind him, Meredith smirked knowingly, at which Lydia raised her eyebrows.  Meredith blinked innocently.

The sun was just beginning to set when the carriage pulled up outside the Royal Palace.  Lydia swallowed nervously, taking in the four flags adorning the castle's many towers.  There was the Welsh flag, a single white and green stripe emblazoned with a red dragon.  Beside it hung the Scottish flag, a massive white 'x' on a deep blue background.  Between the two hung the English flag, a great red cross on a snow-white background.  Hanging above all other flags hung the Whittemore coat of arms, fluttering the weak breeze.

Scott had ran forward, and was addressing a broad young man with fair hair and skin, dressed in a sharp suit.  When he looked up at her, Lydia caught a glimpse of his deep blue eyes.

"That's Mr. Isaac Lahey, the butler," Meredith muttered in her ear.  "Come on, he's introducing us." She hesitated for a second before adding, "I told him I was your lady-in-waiting."

Lydia nodded briskly.  Let Jackson try to take Meredith away.  With that she stepped to the grossly elaborate doors, nodding to Scott when he held the door open for her.  She followed Isaac down a long hall, eventually ending with a pair of even more expensive-looking doors.

"I'll go introduce you," Isaac told her, and slipped through the doors.  

Lydia and Meredith exchanged glances.  This was it.  Lydia's future was waiting behind those doors.  Everything she'd ever hungered for, within reaching distance.  Lydia plastered a serene smile on her face, looking every bit the virgin princess she must be.

Behind the doors, Lydia could hear Isaac speaking, his voice clear and strong.

"Presenting, the Grey Lady of Morrighan..." 

Lydia suddenly flashed back to old memories of her grandmother.  Her whole kingdom had been one of the last practitioners of Celtic pantheonism, rejecting the Irish Catholicism.  The Queen Mother, Lorraine Máirtín, in particular had been especially devout.  When Lydia had been born, her grandmother had given her to Morrighan, the crow goddess of death.  She had been given the name 'Líadan,' 'the grey lady,' after the famed daughters of Morrighan, the banshees.

"...daughter of the White Raven..."

The White Raven.  Death itself.  Though her grandmother had believed with all her heart, Lydia had never believed, never seen the logic behind it.  Lydia believed in things she could see, hear, touch.  She believed in her own beauty, like a setting sun on an impenetrable forest.  She believed in power, the only way a woman could change her own life.  Lydia Martin did not believe in the White Raven.

"... _Banphrionsa_ Lydia Martin of Ireland..."

Meredith believed.  When her family had died, she had seen the Raven, clearly as if it had been her own reflection.  Meredith believed in Morrighan, the crow goddess of death.  Meredith was as devout as Lydia's grandmother had been.

"...and her lady-in-waiting, the Honorable Miss Meredith Walker!" With that, doors swung open, and Lydia strode in, ever the princess she was, Meredith a step behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, Scott spoke Scottish Garlic, whereas Isaac and Meredith spoke Irish Gaelic. The wedding vows are actual Celtic vows.  
> Please comment! Kudos are blessings!


	3. Queen of All She Surveys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Jackson's wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of loss of virginity, and implied bleeding during sex
> 
> The Royal Wedding happens  
> Please enjoy!

Lydia Martin stood before the King of England, trembling under his all-powerful gaze.  Her eyes cast downwards, she looked timid, shy, nervous.  That was what he saw, anyways.

Lydia was a master of herself, above all else.  She knew how English politics worked.  She knew her opinions wouldn't be acknowledged, accepted, or respected, and frankly, that didn't bother her.  Lydia found the best use of her cunning was hiding her wits, her cleverness, and her worldly nature.  The English wanted a sweet, demure Queen who they could call a saint, the King wanted a noble daughter in-law who knelt before him above all else, and Prince Jackson wanted a submissive wife who smiled at him could, a perfect angel he alone could touch.  Lydia thought it was the greatest testament of her genius that she could be all three.

Meredith did not agree with her.  Though her disagreements were so few that Lydia could count them on one hand, this was a particularly strong contention between them.  Meredith insisted that her thoughts were on such a level that the whole world ought to hear them, respect them, follow them.  Well, Lydia had never cared what the world thought, as long as it came when she called.

Lydia had grown up hearing stories of the sweet, simple virgin saints, who whole countries followed.  The world fell to it's knees for virtrue, and intelligence was a sin in the eyes of man on a woman.

So, here she stood, eyes cast down demurely, a flirtatious quirk in her lips as she caught the pale blue eyes of Jackson, sitting to the right of his father.  Meredith stood beside her, eyes cast down similarly, though the gesture appeared more resigned than innocent to the trained eye.

It became quickly apparent that the King was not a trained eye.

Lydia slowly sank to her feet, peering up at his Majesty through her eyelashes.  The King carried a prideful, greedy glimmer in his eye, taking in the spectacle.  Meredith, behind her, simply fell to her knees, eyes clutching the floor in a kind of desperate defeat.  His Majesty saw only the submission, and it showed in his carefully manicured smile.

"Rise," he commanded solemnly, preening silently when they obeyed.  "Mr. Lahey will show you to your rooms."

Lydia curtsied once more, before walking away, careful to not let her back turn towards him.  Meredith went to stand quietly beside Isaac, who looked at Lydia expectantly.  When Jackson became absorbed with his father in deep discussion, Lydia turned towards Isaac, her face carefully kept serene.

"Lead the way, Isaac," she instructed, her voice trembling with the power she would soon hold in her hands.  Isaac dipped his head in acknowledgement, and gestured for Lydia to follow him.  He lead led her down magnificent stone hallways, bedecked with tapestries, carpets, and candlesticks perched on little tables.  

Isaac finally stopped at a set of oaken double doors, carved with an elaborate tree.  He pulled the doors open, revealing massive rooms, lavishly decorated with silken curtains, elaborate rugs, and an enormous four-poster bed.  The bedroom was all green and yellow, with little copper bits glittering among the anslaught of luxury.

Lydia smiled.  She loved green.  It had always reminded her of home.

Isaac left with Meredith to show her her own rooms, leaving Lydia starting breathlessly at the huge window, just across from her bed.  Lydia absentmindedly wandered towards it, and peered out the window at the world around her, her new country, her new kingdom.

* * *

If Ireland had been lamb's ear green, and Wales had been rich emerald green, than England was murky grey.  Lydia had watched from the window, day after day, and saw only hazy skies and grey horizons.  The grass of the countryside was a flourishing green, of course, but Lydia had always felt a sky was so much more important.  

Lydia tore her gaze away from the window distastefully.  She had a wedding to prepare for.  There wasn't time to waste on frivolous things like the weather.

Lydia's face was carefully painted, and she looked more like a doll than anything else.  Meredith had helped her into a dress as white as a swan's back, and Lydia had carefully drapped a veil over her face, masking any imperfection that could be found in her already-perfect face.  She was just waiting for Isaac to tell her the carriage had arrived.

Lydia turned to her dresser, studying her bouquet.  It was a lovely collection of snow-white lilies and marble-stained roses.  However, woven twixt the elegant stems were tiny tansy flowers.  Meredith had told her that they were symbolic of her future with Jackson; too important to be missed.  Meredith had also given her a spring of basil, tucked in Lydia's strawberry-blonde locks, hidden by the veil.

As Lydia studied her bouquet, pondering the starnge arrangement, she heard a sharp knock on the door.  Isaac.

Lifting the bouquet in her hands, Lydia turned around just as Isaac opened the door.   He gave her a tight smile.

"Are you ready to go, your Highness?"

Lydia couldn't bring herself to speak, so she simply nodding.  She followed Isaac down the hallways, and out the door, where he led her to the coach.  Scott sat in his perch, clutching the reins.  He offered her a weak smile as Isaac helped her into the carriage, but said nothing.

With a crack of the reins, they were off.  Lydia stared out the window, her mind aflutter with possibilities she couldn't bring herself to name.

When they finally arrived, Lydia stepped quickly inside the church.  All eyes were on her as she walked down the isle.  Lydia felt a small tingle in her stomach as she stared down the hungry eyes of Jackson Whittemore from under her veil.

England was a Catholic country, and so weddings we're needlessly long, and filled with endless commands.  Lydia tuned out the Bishop's monotone muttering, letting her thoughts twist about hungrily at the unwavering gaze of her fiance, her husband.

Finally, the Bishop began to announce the most important parts; their vows, the promises they were to uphold to each other for as long as they stood together.

"Do you, Prince Jackson Whittemore of England, take this woman to be thy wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death you do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto plight her thy troth?"

Jackson's eyes became to dark to read.  Lydia's chest thudded.

"I do."

"And, do you, Princess Lydia Martin of Ireland, to be the wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto give him thy troth?"

Lydia took a breath.  In her moment of hesitation, Jackson tore his gaze from her veil, allowing his eyes to roam about her body wantonly.  Lydia swallowed.

"I do."

It was done.  She was Princess Lydia Martin of England now, and the thought cosumed her throughout the Holy Mass.

She rode in a carriage with Jackson on the way back.  Scott and Isaac had already left.  Lydia watched the countryside flit by through the window, unable to look her husband in the eye.

Suddenly, icey fingers brushed against her knee, straying above it to touch her inner thigh.

Lydia shivered.

* * *

Lydia was to spend the night in Jackson's rooms tonight.  It was her wedding night, the ultimate surrender to her new identity.

Jackson's rooms were filled with royal blue silks and golden trophies, symbols of his triumphs in combat and the hunt.  The alluring glimmer sunk into Lydia's skin, making her gently uneasy and ill.  She'd never seen so much gold in one room before.  It was almost too much to bear.

Jackson's face filled with eagerness, hunger, greed.  Lydia was suddenly struck with a sudden pang, though from fear or want, Lydia could not tell.

As Jackson pulled away her lovely wedding dress, as white as a winter's moon, Lydia was caught in the memory of an old tale she'd read, when she was studying up for her unofficial conversion to Catholicism.  The first woman, Eve, had taken a bite from the Forbidden Fruit, and so God had cursed womankind an unbearable pain in childbirth.  However, Eve had not been Adam's first wife; that honor went to Lilith, the proud woman who had refused to lie with Adam as his submissive.  Cast out of Eden, she found pleasure with the demons of the world, eventually finding love with archangel Samael.  Lydia was suddenly struck with the question of which wife she would be; Eve, cursed by her faithfulness, or Lilith, freed by her treachery?

The next morning, when Jackson had left for breakfast, and Lydia stood staring at the small bloodstain on the silken sheets, she wondered if perhaps Lilith hadn't truly been freed.  Perhaps her betrayal had given womankind a second pain to endure; the pain of the service to Venus.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings:  
> Tansy: I declare war against you  
> Basil: hate
> 
> Vows taken from actual Catholic vows.
> 
> The service of Venus is medieval slang for sex. C'mon, we all know Jackson would be an inconsiderate lover
> 
> Also, Garden of Eden AU!Stydia? Anyone  
> Just me, then?


	4. The Tied Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia's marriage begins to fall apart, very, very rapidly. No one should be shocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay; I had drivers Ed  
> Anyways, this part contains some description of physical trauma from sex, so read responsibly. Also, we get to meet Stiles!

Lydia Martin blinked slowly, rolling over as sunbeams shone on her pillow.  There was a big, empty space to the right of where she lay.  Jackson must have already left.

Lydia had been married to Jackson for about a month, and she felt she was settling into the role well.  She smiled in public, never looked the King in the eye, and spent every night in Jackson's chambers.  Lydia wasn't a fool; she knew what the English expected of her.  It was her intention to bear a son before the year was out, thereby doubling her politic power.

Lydia slowly rolled out of bed, rubbing her sore thighs with a grimace.  It wasn't exactly enjoyable to be with Jackson every single night, but Lydia could bear it, if it brought her closer to her goal.

However, a month of painful nights was finally taking it's toll on Lydia.  Her legs visibly shook as she tried to dress herself, and she eventually had to call in Meredith to help her.

"Do I need to call the doctor, milady?" Meredith asked, her voice full of concern.

Lydia forced a smile, and shook her head.  She could deal with this.  If a little pain was all this was going to cost, Lydia could bear it.

* * *

Jackson was going out hunting with a party of French lords, the Argent's, so Lydia slipped downstairs to send him off.  She saw no servants, but this was hardly unusual; Jackson had apparently forbade them from being in the same room as her.  It was irritating, and a little lonely, but Lydia knew her place here, in English court.  At least she still had Meredith.  

Speaking of Meredith, the girl must have some semblance of news; she was practically skipping, a rare smile beaming on her face.

Lydia laughed.  "What's gotten you so excited on this fine day?"

Meredith smiled shyly, but said nothing.  Lydia waited a beat, and then the words sprang out; "I made a new friend."

Lydia grinned.  She'd been hopeful that she would.

"Really?  What's her name?"

"Allison Argent.  She's the daughter of Lord Argent."

Lydia was relieved.  The Argents were one of exactly three families she could spend any decent amount of time with; a companion would be lovely.

* * *

The Honorable Allison Argent was truly a kindred spirit.  She had dark hair, and light eyes, and a soft smile that Lydia was certain could melt steel.  She was exceptionally kind to Meredith, and she even knew some of the servants, a feat Lydia had not anticipated.

"There's this one servant..."  Allison blushed, ducking her chin slightly so as not to disturb Meredith's gentle brushing.  Meredith loved to handle hair. 

Lydia smirked into her wine glass as she took the tiniest sip.  It was far too sour for her taste, but it seemed to be all the castle had.  "Allison, are you courting someone?"

If possible, Allison's blush deepened, but she smiled happily, innocently.  There was a sudden pang in Lydia's heart; she'd never seen this kind of giddiness in another person before.  It almost seemed sweeter than love, or certainly any love Lydia'd ever felt.  Lydia shook her head; the giddiness was nothing was nothing more than attraction, Allison would realize that soon.

"His name's Scott.  Scott McCall," Allison murmured, eyes downcast.

Lydia almost spewed her drink.  "Scott McCall?  The Scotsman?"

Allison smirked.  "You're going to have to be more specific.  Almost the entire staff are Scotsmen."

"He's the carriage driver, he helps train the horses," Lydia added.  Allison's eyes widened.

"You know him?" she said eagerly, leaning forward.  Lydia shrugged noncommittally.  Allison squealed, almost jumping before steadying herself.  Meredith quirked an eyebrow, but continued the small braid she'd started along Allison's crown.  

"He's been taking me down to the stables.  He lets me ride the horses."

"Speaking of which, the hunting party just got back," Meredith spoke up, tying off Allison's crown braid.  "Scott's down there, wiping down the horses.  Supper won't be for at least another three hours or so; Boyd wanted to whip up something French for our guests."

Allison sprang up, wrapped Meredith in a tight hug, and bounded out the door.  Lydia and Meredith exchanged glances, and Lydia took another sip of wine.  She wondered absently how long this little infatuation would last.

* * *

It had been about a month and a half, and the infatuation was still going strong, with no signs of stopping.  Lydia was beginning to question  her initial judgement; the longest infatuation Lydia had ever felt lastest three weeks, at the longest.

They'd started meeting in Allison's room, having borrowed Meredith for coordination purposes.  Meredith was, of course, reported all the fun things they said about each other straight to Lydia, but only because Lydia was bored out of her mind, yet again.

It wasn't her fault, per say, that she had nothing to do.  Scott hadn't been lying when he'd said that Lydia wasn't allowed to talk to the servants; they avoided her like the plague.  She was allowed the polite company of the remainder of the Whittmores, who were incredibly borish, the Mahealanis, who lived in Wales, and the Argents, who had exactly one daughter.  As the days ticked by, Lydia grew more and more irritated with Jackson's abvious jealousy and possessiveness.  So, in a fit a passion, when next Allison dropped in for tea, Lydia made possibly one of the greatest decisions of her entire life.

"I want to meet the servants," she announced, her voice incredibly commanding, unwavering, and powerful.  Allison almost dropped her tea, and Meredith actually dropped her brush.

"W-what?  But, isn't Jackson-?" Allison was silenced with a glare.  Lydia was tired of hearing about  _would Jackson approve_ this, and _I'm not sure his Highness would allow it_ that.  Lydia was a free-goddamn-person, and she could survive without Jackson constantly lording over her every move,  _damnit_.

Allison swallowed nervously.  Meredith just stared.

The next day, as Meredith wove a luscious crown imported crocuses into Lydia's strawberry blonde hair, Allison physically dragged Scott McCall into Lydia's rooms.  His eyes were wide with terror, and when he caught sight of Lydia, he practically wrenched his arm from his socket in an attempt to escape.  Lydia smirked.

"Your Highness?  This is Scott McCall, my lover.  I believe you two have met?" Allison asked cautiously, as if she couldn't tell if Lydia we're about to greet him or execute him.  Scott looked like he was betting on the latter.

"Charmed, Master McCall.  You may sit."

Allison sank gracifully into the prooffered chair with a dip of the head, whereas Scott simply flopped down with a distinct air of relief.

"So, Miss-I mean, your Highness, I heard you wanted to meet the servants?" Scott stammered.

Lydia smiled once more, only this one was less viscious, less hungry, less arrogant.  Lydia smiled an indulgent smile, a kind smile, and it was wonder on her face.

Scott lead Lydia and Allison down the hall until they reached a small servant's passageway.  It was dimly lit, with only the occasional sconce smattering the walls.  Lydia watched the flickering light against the dusty shadows, and was struck with the all-too familiar feeling of a distant voice, begging to be heard.

Scott opened the door to the kitchens, currently in full bustle for the epic endeavor that was a supper fit of a King.  Lydia stepped out from behind Scott easily, allowing herself to be the front and center of everyone's gaze as she marched towards the back doors.  Just beyond them, she could almost see the trees.

By the time she reached the doors, Lydia could feel the stares of every kitchen worker as they slowed or stopped their preparations.  They whispered that  _she shouldn't be here, she shouldn't see us,_ but none had the courage, or, rather, the foolhardiness, to stop her.  Allison and Scott muttered frantically about, like twittering sparrows.  Well, Lydia Martin was a cat among birds; ever patient, with little time for the idle chatter of those she seemed irrelevant, at least for the moment.  Lydia shoved the doors open, and stepped outside.

She'd almost forgotten what in was like to not have that Palace suffocating her.

It was greener than she thought it would be, though that was probably accentuated by the thick looming beech tree, hanging over the garden.  A couple chickens hopped about, and, in the distance, three milk cows chewed their grass down to nubs.  There were no sheep in sight.  Lydia thought it looked slightly off without them.

She was shaken out of her reverie by the frantic whispering behind her.  Lydia turned, and spotted two new people, a man and a woman, speaking to Allison and Scott.  The woman was fair, with cropped blonde hair and eyes as dark as the night sky, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. 

The man was a bit taller, with dark hair and darker eyes.  As Lydia took him in, he turned his eyes towards her, and Lydia became trapped in them.  In the light, they became far more active, glittering, like a fine Mead just poured into a goblet.  Lydia shook her head, breaking the spell, and took two steps forwards towards him.  He turned away from Scott, who continued to whisper in his ear.

"Who are you?"  The question almost didn't sound right on Lydia's tongue; it was too loose, to informal, too optional for Lydia's usual taste.  Somehow, Lydia felt it suited the moment well.

"Malia Tate," answered the girl.   _The Palace buyer._

"Stiles.  Stiles Stilinski," answered the boy, dropping his gaze respectfully, and sinking into a small bow.  Malia followed suite.

_Stilinski.  Liquor merchants._

"Why do you only being wine?" Lydia asked, almost accusatorily.  Stiles' eyes flashed with an unknown worry, and he shuffled his feet nervously.

"We've never received any requests for anything else.  I'll can bring you something else, if you'd like."

"Danny says you sell the finest Mead in England."

Stiles considered this, and nodded his agreement.  Lydia dipped her head in return, dismissing him.  Stiles bowed once more, before hopping on a midsized cart, pulled by a sick old nag.  After some coaxing, Stiles set off, away from the Palace.

Three days later, a bottle of mead appeared on Lydia's vanity, wrapped in a crown of purple lilacs.  A note, tucked in the branches, read,  _I hope you will accept my apologies, Miss Lydia._

Ludia smiled.  Behind her, Meredith said nothing.

* * *

Lydia continued to spend her nights in Jackson's Chambers, and her thighs we're beginning to bruise.  Lydia thought nothing of it, though she covered her thighs in front of Jackson whenever possible.  He never noticed.

That night, as the moon rose from behind the curtains, Jackson whispered in her hair as he drifted off to sleep.

"Oh, man, Lydia, you looked so gorgeous at dinner, I could barely wait for the bed."

Lydia knew that.  She was supposed to be proud.

"I should be thanking God for your hair.  I'll never see such a shade of red again."

Lydia's hair was strawberry blonde.  Everyone knew that.  Even Boyd knew that, and she'd never spoken a word to him.

"Lydia fucking Martin.  Damn"

Indeed.  That should be Lydia's greatest achievement; wrapping the crown Prince of England around her finger like a wedding band.  He practically worshipped her.  Except he didn't.  Lydia turned away from Jackson, remembering earlier that day.

_Lydia sat at Jackson's right in the King's study, while he say on his father's left.  Before them, a panel of the King's advisors stood, muttering about in their ears._

_'We must strike back!' hissed one._

_'Show them our true strength,' murmured another._

_'Prove to Scotland, and especially the Hales, that we reign above all else!' still another said._

_"Or, we could ease taxation and recognize their sovereign governments," Lydia spoke up.  "People hate to be controlled."_

_There was silence.  Finally, the King told Jackson to control his wife, and the advisors crooned sweet lullabies of taxation, invasion, and execution.  Jackson leaned over to chastice her, to seduce her, to slid a hand over her thigh, but Lydia only heard the whispers of war, and a name she'd left in Ireland._

~~~~~~~~"My name is Líadan.  Líadan Máirtín of Ireland," Lydia whispered hoarsely.  Jackson didn't hear her.

* * *

Jackson burst into Lydia's room, seething with rage.  Meredith had just brought her a second bottle of mead; the first had withered away so quickly at the hands and lips of the many staff members who Lydia shared it with.  Many had never tried mead before.  This bottle, like the first, was wrapped in a small crown of gardenias, with a small note attached, expressing Stiles' deepest hopes that would enjoy this one as she had the last.  Lydia smiled.

That is, until Jackson came erupting through Lydia's thick, oaken doors, like a raging blizzard, baleful and cold.  He saw Meredith standing before Lydia, hands at her sides, eyes downcast.  He also saw Lydia, holding her liqueur, the note crumpled in her fist.  Jackson slammed a hand on the vanity.  Meredith flinched.  Lydia did not.

"You.  Are.  Mine," he hissed, eyes as hard as a serpent's.  Fitting, too.  There were no such beasts in Ireland.  "If I say you shall not speak to the servants,  _you shall not speak to the servants._ Do I make myself clear?"

Lydia's voice rang clear as well over crisp winter air, leaving no challenge, no question, no submission. 

"I am not your doll."

Jackson snarled, and whirled towards Meredith accusatorily.  He said nothing his glare melted away, and became something brighter, crueler.

He stalked out of Lydia's chambers.

* * *

Meredith stood no chance against the prince.  If his Royal Highness cried 'witch,' someone would burn, no matter how Meredith cried, or how Lydia pleaded.

Allison snuck her out to the execution.

Meredith didn't scream, not even as the flames lapped away at her bare bones.

Lydia looked at the base of the pyre, where little white clovers bloomed.

Lydia slept in her own rooms that night.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Crocus: youthful joy, love, abuse me not  
> Purple lilac: first feelings of love  
> Clover: I promise
> 
> Are the chapters too long?


	5. All The Little People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia grieves her oldest friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about Meredith, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make

Lydia lay curled in her bedspread, curtains drawn tight.  Her green eyes were unfocused and red from crying.  Even now, over a week  after Meredith's execution, tears leaked from her eyes like an old well bucket, worn and full of holes.

"Your Highness?" Allison called in.  Lydia screwed her eyes shut tight.  "Lydia, please come out.  Everyone's worried."

 _But I'm not ready,_ Lydia thought to herself.  Her hands strayed down to her thighs, absentmindedly running her fingers along her bruises.  It had been days since she'd been with Jackson, and they were only just starting to fade.  Her sex was still aching.  This couldn't be normal; Lydia's mother would have told her.

A heavy  _click_ echoed throughout the room as Allison opened the doors. Lydia blinked sadly as Allison sat beside her, eyes wide with concern and brimming with empathy.  

"Lydia, Meredith's death isn't your fault.  You did everything you could to save her."

"It was my fault she was condemned in the first place.  I wasn't supposed to speak to the servants."

"Speaking of the servants, they're all worried.  You should at least reassure them that you're alive," pressed Allison.

"Can't," hissed Lydia, stirring slightly.  Allison frowned, worry flickering like a candle across her face.

"Lydia, you loved Meredith like you loved your home.  But you're not the only person who's lost something dear to them."  Allison looked Lydia right in the eye, and she flinched.

"Scott's father left him and his mother for a tavern when he was just a boy.  Boyd was the only man left in his battalion after the wars.  Malia's mother left a wet rag on her face as a babe in the hope that it would kill her.  My aunt was hung as a witch back in France.  You can't let grief rule your life, Lydia."

Another tear trickled from Lydia's eye.  "It's not just that."

Worry flickered across Allison's face, and she ran a soft hand over Lydia's.  "What do you mean?"

Lydia pulled her hand away from Allison's, gesturing to her sex.  "Hurts."

"But I thought you hadn't been with Jackson since Meredith's execution."

"Well, the bruises are fading now."

Allison's worry only magnified.  "Bruises?  May I see?"

Lydia gave a small nod, laying still as Allison pulled back the sheets.  When Allison caught sight of Lydia's thighs, her eyes went wide, and she dropped the sheet in shock.

"My God, Lydia!  Are you alright?"

Lydia nodded slowly.  "The bruises are fading now," she repeated, "I'll be fine in a couple days."

"Do you mean to tell me that these were  _worse_ earlier!?  Lydia, this isn't normal."

Lydia sighed, looking out the window.  "It's just a woman's penance, the price we must all pay for Lilith's betrayal."

Allison stared disbelievingly for a minute, before standing graciously and exiting the room.

"I'll leave you to your rest," she whispered, closing the doors.

* * *

 Lydia finally left her rooms two weeks after Meredith's funeral.  Instead of her usual royal finery, she wore an old black dress, with ashes smeared over her eyelids, and a black cloak her grandmother had given her.  When Lydia looked in the mirror, she saw herself; powerful, proud, and grieving.  The whole palace would know the grief she felt for her oldest friend, her sister-in-arms, the last reminder of her crown and country.

She was silent as a ghost as she tiptoed out her doors.  Servants dotted the hallways, but they didn't flee from her view, not like they used to.  Lydia wasn't an omnipotent mystery anymore; she was a friend.  Lydia didn't know which she preferred.  

Lydia pulled the hood of her cloak down, covering her hair.  She reached out an arm and stopped Erica, the headmaid, gently.

"Has everyone already eaten?" Lydia whispered hoarsely, her unused throat grinding against her sob-stained voice. 

Erica nodded, her usually calculating eyes soft with empathy.  She hesitated for a moment, as if she wished to say something.  Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"His Highness had a guest in his Chambers last night."

Lydia couldn't bring herself to be surprised.

* * *

The rest of the day passed by in a small blur.  Lydia pointedly avoided any and all noblemen, even Allison.  Try as she might, the dear girl simply wasn't helping.  Lydia needed to help herself.

That night, Lydia looked out her window again.  Summer was coming swiftly, the flowers blossoming happily, and the birds leaving their nests.  In the evening air, the sky seemed to glow with brilliant colors, ones Lydia had never seen outside if flowers.

There was a bottle of mead on the vanity.  Allison must have left it there.  Lydia picked it up, and turned it in her hands.  A delicate crown of cypress twigs adourned it.  Lydia lifted the attached note gently, and began to read:

_Miss Lydia,_

_All angels will eventually return to God._

_My condolences,_

_Stiles._

It was less formal than Lydia was used to in correspondence, but she liked it.  It was nice to think of Meredith in a higher place.  Heaven knew she deserved it.

Lydia uncorked the Mead and took a small sip from the bottle, raising it to the heavens.

"For Meredith Walker," Lydia breathed gently, slowly rising to her feet.

Lydia wandered throughout the empty palace halls, taking in the stillness, the silence.  The sun finally fl beneath the horizon, leaving the hallways bathed in moonlight.  Candlelight flickered under the study door, and Lydia slumped against the wall beside it, taking a long draught from her bottle of mead. 

Voices inside clamoured together, hissing vindictive things about _the barbarians, the price they must pay, their arrogance_.  Lydia closed her eyes as yet another burst of grief bubbled up inside her.

They were invading Scotland.  She'd warned them not to; like any other people, they desired freedom, acceptance, their own way of life.  If England tried to wrench it from them, to steal away what little liberty they had left, the British Isles would never know peace.  

Lydia thought about the servants, the silent friends she had made through Allison.  Erica had seven younger siblings who she sent money back to each month.  Isaac was helping to pay his brother through University.  Boyd had a wife, and a small farm in the far, far North.  A warm could easily take all that from them, easily destroy their lives.

Lydia slowly opened her eyes, locking gazes with her reflected image in the polished shield across the hall.  She was unrecognizable; her hair had tangled and dulled, her skin a vivid quilt of ashy skin and rosy cheeks, and her eyes were dull and unfocused.  It was a mask of death, shrouding her face, not unlike Meredith's as she marched to her doom.

Suddenly, Lydia's eyes burned with tears, and she stood and ran down the hall, frantically wiping them from her eyes.  Her mind was cosumed with thoughts of  _fire, fire, fire_ , and she took another swallow of Mead, but it did nothing.  Lydia burst out the kitchen doors, out into the cool night air, and still she ran, unable to see, unable to hear, until she ran into the town, her bare feet softly tapping the stones.

All around her, the village was quiet, with only the drunks staggering away from the bars.  No one recognized her, and Lydia was struck with how very like a sword her name was; it gave her power, but she could not weild it if it was hidden.

Finally, Lydia could run no more.  She collapsed, leaning against an old merchant's shop, thick and solid.  Lydia took a few more hearty swallows from her bottle, still clutched in her hand like a shield, before banging her head against the wall.  The heavy ache echoed against her skull.

Lydia looked up, slightly dazed in her intoxicated state, and felt a strange rush of relief.  She couldn't quite understand why, but it was enough to allow her to safely sip away the last remnants of her bottle, before curling up tightly in her cloak and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Lydia was awakened fine sound of heavy feet against wood.  Her eyes shot open, taking in her surroundings.  She was on a thin cot in what appeared to be a guest room, which was definitely _not_ the palace.  Lydia rubbed her aching head, and suddenly her memories came rushing back; the mead, the running, the village, the shop.  As Lydia resurveyed the room, she was struck with a final memory of the sign she had slept under.

It had read, "Fine Liquors." There was only one liquor trader in town; the Stilinskis.  They must have brought her inside earlier.

Lydia rubbed her face as the reality of her situation sank in.  She wasn't supposed to leave the palace grounds; hell, she wasn't really supposed to leave the _palace._   The Stilinskis were beyond in trouble.  If she could escape quickly, maybe she could find her way back, so it would just look like she'd been wandering around in grief.  Lydia was about to rush to the window when the door swung open.

Lydia locked eyes with an older man, who looked like he might be Stiles' father.  After a minute or two of silence, he shouted over his shoulder, "Stiles, did you kidnap the Queen?"

There was an indignant shout that Lydia couldn't quite make out.  Stiles' father shrugged, and walked away to attend to whatever business he had.

There was a flurry of steps from outside the doors, followed by Stiles bursting into the room.

Lydia choked down a laugh.  Stiles' eyes were wild, his hair was messy and full of hay, and his shirt looked like it had been chewed on by a horse.

"You are in a whole new world of trouble, Mr Stilinski."

Stiles frowned, running a hand through his hair.  "Well, what was I supposed to do, leave the actual Queen of England outside?  No, no way."

"Well, it would have been better in the long run."

"Actually, I've been thinking of a way around that.  If you hop in the wagon, I can bring you around back.  You can just wander around the grounds for however long you feel like; you won't look any crazier than people already think you are."

"People think I'm crazy?"

"Have you seen yourself recently?"

Lydia sat up a little straighter, banishing her reflection from her mind.  "Excuse me, sir, but you are speaking to your  _queen_."

Realuzation seemed to sink in, and Stiles backed out of the doorway instinctively, his hands fluttering about.

Lydia raised an eyebrow.  "Should we go?"

Stiles nodded distractedly.  "Yeah, I- yeah, we should go."

The cart ride was different than what Lydia was used to; Roscoe, as Stiles called the nag, was slow and stubborn, prone to kicking the seat when provoked, usually by Stiles' colorful vocabulary.  It was a great deal bumpier, and a great deal nosier, but Stiles made up for it with pleasant conversation.  It was a short trip, and Stiles dropped her off just outside the palace grounds, kissing her hand politely before driving off.  

Lydia stood there and watched him drive off, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Cypress: mourning


	6. Taste of the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lots of things happen, very, very quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long, I've been busy with family things. Some shit gets started in this one, but I'll be back soon with the thrilling follow-up!

Mahealani and his manservants we're coming for an extended stay at the Royal Palace, otensibly to advise Jackson.  Lydia wasn't fooled, though.  Jackson had one true friend in this lifetime, and it sure as hell wasn't her. 

Lydia didn't mind, though.  It would be refreshing to have a new person to talk to.

When she expressed such sentiments to Allison, she pouted gently, asking if she was being replaced.

Stiles sent a bottle of whiskey, wrapped with Bells of Ireland and attached with the simple note,  _Best of luck be with ye, your Highness_.

Later, when Lydia shared the whiskey with Isaac, she commented, "It's a fine thing, luck; you don't know what it is you'll need it for, but you're grateful nonetheless."

Isaac hissed at the burn of the whiskey down his throat.  "If only all our fine leaders we're as perceptive as you, your Highness."

On the day Danny arrived, Lydia braided the Bells of Ireland in her hair before going downstairs to greet them.  She refused to knowledge Jackson, though she stood at his side throughout the formal greetings.

Lydia felt a prickling in the back of her neck, the kind of tingle like someone is holding a candle to the back of her neck.  Lydia turned subtly, looking for the source of the flame.

It was Aiden, staring at her with all the fierce heat of a wildfire, left unchecked and unattended.  Lydia thought back to when she'd first met him, how he had watched her, how she had twiddled him between her fingers, and it struck her that if she wanted him, she could have him.

Lydia met Aiden's gaze evenly, equally, and heard nothing when Danny greeted her formally, feeling only the heat of her own passions.

After all, if Jackson could dabble about outside of the wedlock, why couldn't she?

* * *

Aiden came up to her room that night.  Lydia welcomed him aggressively, and they both knew that this wasn't about sex, or love; this was about power, a power both wanted but neither possessed. 

At least, not alone.

Aiden makes her feel  _good_ , and Lydia smiles when it's done, and her thighs don't ache like they used to.  She thinks she could get accustomed to this arrangement.

In the morning, when Aiden quietly creeps away, thinking himself as silent as the night, Lydia thinks.  She thinks that Jackson is like the shadows, stretching between every tree and behind every house.  Lydia is meant to obey him, to fear him, to belong to him, but she can only see Aiden, and run to him as a frozen woman runs to fire.

She doesn't think about who she is in this equation.

Lydia covers up the bright purple marks Aiden left across her chest, and glows with pride.  She is proud to be noticed, proud to be desired, proud to hold him between her forefinger and thumb, like a grape she could pop at a moment's notice.

When Allison comes, she squeals with delight, and holds Lydia's hands.  Lydia tells her she had a good time, and Allison is proud, too; proud that Lydia knows it can feel good.  In the past, Lydia would scoff at the idea that knowing such a thing was something to be proud of, but now she sends Allison a sly wink as the pair walk through the gardens, giggling like hens.

That evening, Lydia has already eaten dinner, so she waits by the palace gates, wrapped up in the cloak her grandmother had given her.  No one notices her, and no one recognizes her, except for the brilliant young man with the impossibly, old , stubborn nag, who comes riding by after dinner of Saturdays.

Stiles slows down his wagon, which creaks ominously, and grins down at Lydia, offering her a hand.  Lydia smiles back up at him, and accepts it.

The pair ride in the wagon down to the village, chattering like sparrows.  Stiles tells her about Brunski, one of three doctors and apothecaries in town.

"It's nonsense!  He continues to demand a payment that he promised he'd forgive, that he knows we can't pay, that, frankly, he doesn't even  _deserve_ , and when we tell him to fuck off, he refuses to pay us!  Jordan says we should rob him, but Dad's navy morals keep getting in the way."

Lydia tells him about Danny, and Aiden, and Stiles laughs.  There's something behind that laugh, something softer, sadder, but even though Lydia knows everything a person could need to know about politics, and religion, and sacrifice, she hasn't heard enough people laugh out loud to recognize it.

At the Stilinski liquor store, Lydia waits in the front, listening to Stiles' father, the Sheriff, as he's called, gripe loudly about a very, very irrate customer he practically punched over a single brew as he prepared the table in the back.  Jordan Parrish, the young bartender, wipes down the counters and cleans all the glasses, while she and Stiles sample a couple of the more exotic flavors the Stilinskis have to offer.  Tonight, Stiles has somehow, probably with Devil magic, procured couple bottles of something called sake, a kind of Japanese wine.  It tastes like ice and marshmallow in a cool cloud, and Lydia downs it with relish.

"Whoa there, your Highness; save some for the rest of us," teases Jordan as he snatches the bottle away.  Stiles and Lydia laugh, and the Sheriff hollers at them to bring the sake, it'll go great with the mutton Stiles made.

So, the princess of England, betrothed to the throne, sits with a family of liquor merchants, and the four of them laugh together heartily.  Jordan asks Lydia if she's been kidnapped, and as Lydia laughs until her chest hurts, the Sheriff asks Stiles if he sold his soul to the Devil, and, by the end of the evening, everyone's sides ache from food and drink and merriment.

Stiles, Lydia thinks, as he drives her home, is like the stars; ever shining, giving solace, light, and joy to all who ask, so close she could almost touch him, and yet a world apart.

Lydia has never told a soul where she spends her Saturday nights. Not even Allison.

* * *

Scott and Allison have their first fight.  It's about all the wrong things.

Allison supports Lydia's affair with Aiden.  She says that Lydia needs to have someone who makes feel good, and not just in the obvious way.  She says that Aiden is there to love Lydia, and make her feel supported.

Lydia thinks that Allison has greatly overestimated Aiden's importance in her life.

Scott feels that Lydia ought to break it off.  He says that Aiden could very well be killed if they were ever found out.  Indeed, he says, Lydia shouldn't have to rely on sex to feel loved, not when she has more friendships now then she ever has before.

Lydia thinks he should have more faith in Lydia's secret-keeping abilities, and that Scott McCall should butt out of her business.  So should Allison, for that matter.

Neither one listens to her.

When they break up, Allison cries.  Not for very long, but it still happens.  Then, she moves on.  According to Stiles, Scott does not.

Allison and Isaac exchange glances when he let's her into Lydia's room, and they smile.  Lydia smiles, too.

* * *

It's the full moon tonight.  It's also a Saturday.  Lydia tells Stiles this as he drives her back to the palace.

"That's true, your Highness.  Night of old magic.  Mystery.  How do you intend to spend it?"

"Meredith always loved the full moon," Lydia breathes, barely a whisper.  "I'm taking some hyacinths to her grave tonight." She stared down at the small pile of violet purple blossoms in her lap, a heavy weight resting on her shoulders.

"My mother loved the moon, too," Stiles whispered back, and it was like he'd stepped under her burden and taken part of the load himself.  Lydia sat up taller and nodded.

 She slipped off the wagon, and bid Stiles goodnight.  He nodded his head to her, cracking the reins to spur Roscoe on.  Lydia watched him round a corner, vanishing into the night, before turning back towards the palace.

Lydia pulled a small purple hyacinth from her cloak, studying it intently.  It was in the height of it's bloom, tall and lovely.  Suddenly, Lydia felt a prickle in the back of her neck, as though she were being watched.  She whirled around, but saw no one.

Lydia walked inside the palace gates, but she didn't go inside.  Instead, she ducked into the gardens, her hair brushing by low-hanging branches as she strode determinedly.  Finally, she arrived massive, old oak tree, wider around than any tree Lydia had seen outside of Ireland.  Meredith would have called it the Nemeton.  It was only fitting that her ashes would be scattered here.

In the sky above, the full moon shone down on the tiny clearing where resided the Nemeton.  There was hardly a cloud in the sky, and, somewhere, Lydia could feel Meredith smile as she laid the flower at the roots of the Nemeton.

Poor, faithful Meredith, the woman who watched Death come with a serene smile on her face, as though she we're greeting an old friend.  Lydia wished she could believe like Meredith, but some things weren't meant to be.

Loud footsteps thudded behind her.  Lydia whirled around, eyes wide and fearful.  It was Stiles, sprinted towards her desperately.  He shouted to her, "Your Highness, look out!"

Lydia felt a sudden weight crash into her side, sending her flying.  Lydia stared up in fear at the shadowy man standing above her.  The moonlight glinted on his silvery knife as he slashed downwards.  Lydia cried out.

The knife sank into her gut, just below her ribs, and pain blossomed all throughout Lydia's chest.  Check could hear the man and Stiles speaking to each other, but couldn't quite make out what they were saying.  All around her, a dizzying blackness seeped into her vision, clouding the trees, until, mercifully, Lydia sank into unconsciousness.

Moments before the world faded away, Lydia saw it, hovering just outside her reach.

The White Raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Purple hyacinth: I'm sorry
> 
> Aiden's here, Stiles and Lydia are bonding, and we get a crisis of Faith to boot! What fun!


	7. The Golden Dragon of Wales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia changes some more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait!  
> School, you know how it is.  
> Anyways, I'm really proud of this chapter, and I would love to hear your feedback on it!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Flower definitions at the end.

When Lydia awakens, she is alone.

She is glad for this. She isn't sure she's ready to be a princess now.

Meredith was right.  Lydia somehow couldn't bring herself to be surprised.  Meredith was always right.  

Lydia had seen the White Raven flash before her eyes.  She should have died.  No one sees the White Raven and lives.

Except Meredith.

Except Lorraine, Lydia's grandmother.

Except Lydia.

The White Raven is beautiful.  She is light and airy, fluttering like a Seelie queen, wrapped in a cloak of mist, and crowned in a Corona of moonlight.  Her eyes glimmer like the sun, hidden behind a cloud, only the brightest of rays reaching the eye.

Lydia closes her eyes and breathes.  It's rather nice.

There's a small knock on the door.  Lydia sits up straighter, clears her throat, schools her expression.  She is made for this.

A woman enters the room.  Her eyes are rich and dark, and her skin tanned.  Her dark hair is pulled back by a thin string, and her hands are thin, but strong.  She's carrying a tray, bearing tea.  Lydia nods to her gratefully.

"Hello, your Highness.  Deaton will be in shortly to take off your bandages."  The woman speaks in a thick Scottish accent, untamed by her time spent in England.  Lydia narrows her eyes thoughtfully.

"You are Mrs.  McCall.  You are Scott's mother."

She gives Lydia a small smile and a respectful nod, before leaving Lydia to her tea.  Peaceful quiet reigns again.

The tea is made from eglantine rose hips.  It's very pleasant.

Deaton does come, and take off her bandages.  Scott's mentor is a kindly man with dark skin and a bald head.  His touch is firm and practiced, and his voice is soft and experienced.

"Who was it?" Lydia asks firmly.

Deaton glances at her briefly, but soon refocuses.  "His name was Peter Hale.  He was a displaced Scottish Lord.  Most of his family was recently put to death for high treason.  Most of the staff hear used to live under him.  They don't exactly give glowing endorsements."

"Has he been sentenced?"

"Yes, just this morning.  Sentenced to hang by the neck until dead."

"When is his execution?"

"I'm not sure."

A brief pause.  It lasts hardly ten seconds, but Lydia allows everything to fall down, and her muscles go limp and relax.

"You are supposed to go before his Majesty after I take off these bandages.  Isaac willtake you.  He's just outside."

Lydia inhales slowly, building back up her composure, her posture, her calm, and readies herself.

"Very well."

Isaac does not announce her in Gaelic, and she feels a strange sort of remorse for the lack of familiarity.

At her summons, Lydia is not allowed to say a word.  The king tells her she is fragile, that she needs rest.  She's going to Wales, to stay with the Lord and Lady Dunbar.

Lydia stares Jackson right in the eyes the entire meeting.  He is gloating, he is proud.  She doesn't get to see the execution.  She doesn't get to take her power back.

Lydia demurely excuses herself and returns to her rooms.  She does not cry.

She has no reason to, after all.

* * *

Allison throws herself into packing, and planning, and numerous lectures and reprimands about how Lydia  _really must be careful, she mustn't injure herself in Wales._

Stiles laughs when Lydia tells him, and he gives her a gladiolus, from across the English channel.  Lydia blushes, and to this day cannot understand why.

* * *

When Lydia arrives, she is greeted by the Lord, Liam Dunbar, and his wife, a lovely Spanish woman by the name of Hayden.  They sit next to each other at the head of the table during dinner, and tell Lydia stories.

"Indeed, you should have seen him when we first met!  Just barely on the adult side of things, a foreign soldier, no lesas, crashing about like no one had ever tuaght him to use his legs!  Well, after an hour of lecturing, he practically tiptoed about for the rest of the week!"

"Oh, like you were any better!  No bark and all bite, as I recall!  The servants cowered in fear at the very thought of you and your nasty temper!"

Hayden laughed loudly, openly, and Lydia flinched behind her wine glass.  "Oh, you presume much husband, but that you are safe from my anger is perhaps the most dangerous!"  Liam quailed before her grin, and Lydia felt something stir inside her.

She had never known a marriage like this before, so full of love, of balance, of playfulness.  The Lord and Lady talked as equals, and kept few secrets.  Indeed, there was no real need for them; a husband of faith thought only of his wife, and a powerful wife thought only of the man she had chosen.  Lydia's grandmother had often said as much, and so Lydia had wooed the Prince of England, heir to the throne, and earned a title most women would only dream of.  A marriage built on love, on trust, on honesty was a child's fantasy; just look at Allison and Scott, falling apart at the smallest thing.  Yet, here they sat, at the same table as Lydia, and Lydia could feel an empty pit in her stomach, one that no French wine would ever fill, widening and thickening with every soft smile and adoring look the pair exchanged.

Suddenly, a warm, broad hand gently touched her shoulder, and, unthinkingly, Lydia eased into it, as if she'd known it all her life.  She looked over her shoulder, and gave Stiles the tiniest of smiles when she saw him standing at her side, holding a glass of golden liqueur.

"May I interest you in a glass of mead, your Highness?" he whispered, his voice soft, and Lydia suddenly felt as if he had shared a grand secret with her, one she could never reveal.  She nodded wordlessly, and Stiles effortlessly plucked her deep red wine away, replacing it with the sweet water of home.

Lydia carefully lifted the chalice, and saw a single fruit from a strawberry tree floating on the surface.  She gently lifted it from the mead, and popped it in her mouth.  Lydia chewed it contentedly, before washing down with a swig of warm, oaky mead that filled her down to her toes.  Lydia and Stiles shared a look, and Lydia could feel that pit within her begin to close.

* * *

Aiden joined her in bed that night.  He told her that Allison had secured him a spot working in the Royal palace.

Lydia felt restless the entire night.

* * *

Stiles sat on her bed, watching softly as Lydia wore a trail into the thick sheepskin carpet of her room, fretting.

"I just don't know, it feels like a trick.  Like a lie.  It feels like something Allison expects me to want, to need, even, and I just..don't."

"So tell her that," Stiles says evenly, not even batting an eye.  "Tell Allison that you don't need an evening fuck just to make it through the dreary life that is your marriage to the future King of England.  Tell her a job transfer is an easily traceable route straight to your bedroom, and we all know about his Highness's control issues by now.  Tell her you got scabies from Jackson, and you don't want Aiden to get the seven year itch.  It's really up to you."

Lydia narrows her eyes at Stiles.  "You know, you swear an awful lot for being in the presence of royalty."

Stiles shrugs.  "What can I say?  My dad was in the Navy; we picked stuff up.  Besides, you're not exactly a saint, yourself.  I'm pretty sure I can get away with it."

"Oh, really?  How sure?"

"Reasonably sure."

"Sure enough to bet your head on it?"

Stiles looks nervous, and fidgets a little on the bed.  "Maybe not that sure," he mutters, and Lydia beams with pride.  She loves winning these little bets-slash-arguments.

"Back to the subject at hand, you should definitely go with scabies.  The French hate scabies.  It'll definitely work."

"I don't think scabies are that big a deal to anyone except you, Stiles.  Besides, I haven't shared a bed with Jackson in months."

"Well, she doesn't need to know that."

* * *

The next day, Lydia can barely walk after her night with Aiden.  Excitement lengthens his stamina, and, as fun as it was, Lydia definitely wishes he wasn't so... _vivacious_.  Stiles pops in again, this time with a wide smile staining his Polish features.   Lydia returns it, rubbing her pelvis awkwardly.

"Excuse, me, your Highness, but would you care to go for a walk through the gardens?"

Lydia lets out the smallest of gasps.  "A garden?  Here?" .

Stiles laughs, and Lydia can feel herself soaking it up like a happy sponge, as her aunt had always said.  "Indeed, there is, and it's astounding, and in full bloom."

Lydia's smile widens, and she even allows herself a small chuckle.  "Very well, but you'll have to assist me in walking.  My legs are a tad unsteady."

To Lydia's utter shock, a small blushes tinges Stiles' cheeks.  He'd never showed any signs of embarrassment before, especially when it came to Lydia's...romantic exploits.

Lydia tucked that away for further study, and accepted a prooffered hand.  Stiles guided her through the castle, pausing to introduce Lydia to the pair of groundskeepers, Mason and Corey.

"Mason is Liam's oldest friend, Corey is Hayden's.  Honestly, I'm not surprised they make such a pair.  I seem to be alone in that respect."

When they finally arrive in the gardens, Lydia's voice fell away to wonderment.  It was, indeed, astounding.  Large, looming trees, as plentiful as they were varied, dotted the hedged-in spectacle, seemingly random, yet unobstrusively ordered, in a way that Lydia couldn't quite bring herself to explain. As the pair wandered further into the garden, Lydia took in the beautiful variety of flowers displayed.  Foreign jasmine plants, fragrant and lovely, with little primroses dotted the ground around them cheerily.  Blossoming peach trees hung low with age, lost petals scattering the ground beneath them.  Beds of soft rainflowers sprouted beside unfurling red roses, glistening with morning dew.  These were not the only roses, either; curled around the thick reds were little baby white roses, the occasional lavender specimen, and, in the center of the whole, glorious mess, a single blue rose stood tall and lovely.  Straw lined the pathways, only adding to the orderly, yet chaotic beauty that Lydia could only soak up and treasure.  Surrounding the blue rose were tulips, plentiful in number and color; red, orange, variegated.  Viscaria was in the height if it's bloom, and Lydia could smell rare Ylang-Ylang oil perfuming the air.  It was too much to take in.  

Stiles and Lydia wandered through the garden, silent as mice.  Finally, as Lydia reached out trembling fingers to stroke the blue rose, Stiles spoke.

"Lord Dunbar ordered this built for his wife, as a wedding present.  They are her favorite flowers, her mother's favorite flower, things she'd seen and loved on her travels on Asia.  He wanted to give her something that would always remind her of her youth, her home, just in case she should ever need it." 

His voice was a ragged whisper, and when Lydia tore her eyes away from the sun-kissed beauty of nature, her wide green eyes locked onto his deep honeyed orbs, like a crystal glass filled with a fine whiskey.

Lydia swallowed thickly as his eyes softened into something Lydia couldn't recognize.

"Please don't look at me like that," she whispered desperately, pleadingly, wishing for the heavy feeling in her gut to leech away into something she remembered.

"Like what?"

Lydia's breath caught on the tripping of her heart, and all she could see was the constellations mapped into Stiles' skin, his slender, twitching fingers, his eyes, dear Morrighan, his eyes.  Lydia remembered the White Raven, remembered it's shining feathers, it's glowing eyes, and she's suddenly convinced that, if she leaned close enough, Lydia could see the Morrighan herself lingering in the subtle shadows of Stiles' eyes.

"Like I'm the sun."

Stiles gives her a soft smile, an adoring smile, and reaches out gently to stroke to back of her hand.  Lydia's breath becomes shuddering and quick, and a short little thought says _go go go, don't let him escape, let him in_ , and if Lydia hadn't trained thoughts away, she would have touched back.

"Your Highness," Stiles begins, his voice barely a whisper, "Lydia, you are far more precious than that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Definitions:  
> Eglantine rose: a wound to heal  
> Gladiolus: strength  
> Strawberry tree: you are the only one I love  
> Jasmine: unconditional and eternal love  
> Primrose: eternal love  
> Peach Blossom: long life and bridal hope  
> Rainflower: I love you back, I'll never forget you  
> Red rose: true love  
> Red and white rose: united  
> Lavender rose: love at first sight  
> Blue rose: mystery, attaining the impossible  
> Straw: united  
> Red tulip: undying love, perfect love  
> Orange tulip: understanding, appreciation, truest love  
> Variegated tulip: beautiful eyes  
> Viscaria: invitation to dance  
> Ylang-Ylang: never ending love
> 
> Aren't Hayden and Liam adorable?  
> Tell me what you think!


	8. When Everything Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia reflects  
> Bad things happen, people get hurt  
> I have no regrets
> 
> A haiku by me

Now that Lydia thinks about it, Jackson is not like the shadows.  He is not a constant force, nor is he intangible.  He is not the absence of some kind of light, be it God, or humanity, or Death, nor is he the absence of it. As such, Jackson is not like the shadows.

Jackson is like the moon.  Though seems omnipresent, he is inconstant, and fickle.  His whims change daily, but only slightly, never drastically.  He pulls at the world, and the world responds, but only just.  He is a prince, not a good, or even a king.

Lydia once read a theory by Anaxagoras, an old Greek philosipher, and he said that the moon gets it's light from the sun.  So, too, does Jackson; his power is given to him by the people, on his own he has nothing.

If this is true, that means Stiles is the sun.  He is warm, and bright, and it hurts to look too long.  He gives and gives away his own energy, and asks for little in return.  Stiles is a passive voice of reason in any human conflict.

Most importantly, Stiles does not listen to Jackson.  He gives Jackson credence, with basic obedience, but Stiles also comes to the castle every Saturday evening, and he takes her to his house, to his father, to his life. Together, they drink, and it's far richer liquor than anything Jackson could ever thirst for.  It's liquor as rich as Stiles' eyes when he tells her she's worth more than the sun, and she thinks she can see his logic.

The sun makes an appearance every day.  Everyone sees it, anyone can recognize it.  It's too tangible, despite being just out of reach.  It's too common, despite being unique in every way.

Lydia thinks that the sun is at least equally precious as herself, but she supposes it doesn't always seem that way when you are the sun, when you see yourself, and then you see a far away, unobtainable ghost of a beauty, one feels pale in comparison.

Lydia sees Stiles' logic.

She doesn't necessarily agree with it.

If all this is true, that means that Aiden is fire.  He is powerful, passionate, hungry.  He knows what he wants, and he takes it.  He wanted Lydia, and so she'd basked in his flickering, heated touches that seemed to light up the world at night.

However, with Stiles' revelation, Lydia can see the sun, and a flickering light in the shadows is nothing compared to the brilliance of the daytime sky.

Lydia may have enjoyed the fire, but it could never replace the sun.

If all of this is true, than Stiles thinks Lydia is a star.  She is distant, untouchable, ethereal.  To others, she may be dwarfed by the moon, by Jackson, but her brilliance far outshines his own stolen luminance.  Jackson would be lost without another's power, without another's light, and Lydia has been happy to donate hers to the cause.  Lydia exists just beyond the border between day and night, light and dark, serfdom and nobility, always reaching for the clouds, but only touching shadows.

Lydia is not from this world.  She will smother Aiden, smother his fire, and so, too, will Jackson.

That is why she must end it with Aiden.

It was never meant to last.

* * *

 

She never gets the chance.

 

 

Jackson finds Aiden in her Chambers, waiting for her.

 

 

He was hung at dawn, in front of a vast crowd.

 

His brother cries.

So does Lydia.

But not just for Aiden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Allison hangs by his side.

 

 

 

 

 

It was never meant to hurt anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew it had to happen
> 
> Please comment!


	9. His Eyes Like Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the Yukimuras.
> 
> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this one.  
> Tell me what you think of it!  
> *coughcough*comment*cough*

Jackson says it's Lydia's fault.  He says, if Lydia could only defend herself, Aiden wouldn't have made such forward advancements.

Lydia is too numb to care.

Everyone is gone.

Allison is gone.

Aiden is gone.

Danny and Ethan are gone.

Isaac is gone.

Erica and Boyd are gone.

Malia is still here, but fighting for every breath she dares take.

Scott is still here, but languid and empty, a shell without a soul.

Stiles is still here.

...

Stiles is still here.

* * *

Noshiko Yukimura comes to the Palace.  She is Japanese, and she brings her husband and daughter with her.  Jackson says that she will train Lydia, to make sure that Aiden will never happen again.

Privately, Lydia agrees.

Aiden will never happen again.

At first, Lydia trains on her own, going through the motions, swipe, block, punch, block, kick.  She gets faster, tougher, stronger, each swing of her fist or slice of her blade slowly breathing life back into a frost-eaten body.

Noshiko is proud of her progress, very proud, and soon, Lydia is sparring with Kira.

Kira is an angel lying to itself about being human.  She is humility given life.  She is kindness given a smile.  She is patience given an ear, and temperance given a blade.  Innocent in every inch of her dark eyes, Kira asks Lydia if Aiden really took advantage of her.

Lydia gives her a knowing smile.

She will understand, if not agree.

Not yet, though.

Kira and Lydia are equal matches, perfectly balanced.  Lydia is all subtlety and timing, waiting out her best window, like the Serpent in the Garden, waiting for Eve.  Kira is lightning speed and fiery strength, pushing and outlasting until her opponents drop from exhaustion.  They are merciless, clashing together again and again, as Noshiko spurs them on with steady encouragement.

Sparring can only ever end in injury for them.

The first time, Lydia was nicked over the shoulder.  The second time, Kira sprained an ankle.  And so, it continued, trading blows back and forth over a lifetime of battles.

Recently, Kira has taken more than her fair share.  It's an unspoken agreement between her and Lydia.  Scott McCall comes to treat their wounds, and Lydia hasn't seen him smile so brightly since Allison first pulled him into her chambers.

Kira blushes whenever Lydia tells her this.  She blushes whenever Lydia talks about Scott.

* * *

Lydia hasn't been able to go to Stiles' house on Saturdays.  Jackson has eyes everywhere, and she knows what happens when they get caught.

She doesn't think she can ever forget Aiden.

Lydia sees Stiles, of course.  The palace goes through enough liquor to power the entire Navy, it should go without saying that the Stilinskis are some of their favorite people.  So, Lydia sees him with Malia, bringing more French wine, and every meal Lydia thinks she might just fling herself from the rooftops if she has to force down another sip of that unbearably powerful sludge.

He only sends her one bottle of mead.  It's wrapped in red carnations.  When Kira asks about it, Lydia blushes even redder.

* * *

Kira gently let's herself into Lydia's quarters.  Jackson made Lydia come to bed with him last night, and Lydia's thighs tremble with pain.  She missed how Aiden had made it feel tolerable, like something she could enjoy, rather than put up with.  

 _It's just Lilith's curse again; a woman will only know pleasure outside of her marriage bed,_ Lydia thinks to herself.  She's sprawled out on her four-poster bed, the sheets tangled around her legs as she tries to drown her aches in soft fabric.  Kira gently smoothes her strawberry blonde hair aside as she sits on the bed.

"I know you can't fight today," Kira starts.  Her eyes glow with empathy, and Lydia prays to a god she'll never worship that she finds every bit of peace she deserves.

"Is there anything else that could make you feel better?" Kira finishes.  Lydia doesn't say anything, just casts her eyes over to the almost empty bottle of mead across the room, on her dresser.  Kira follows her gaze, and gives a slow nod, before standing and leaving the room.  Lydia is left in her misery, and lets her eyes flutter closed as she wills away her bruised thighs and battered sex.

Time passes, and Lydia could never admit she's not sure how much.

Finally, the thick, solid oak doors creak open, and Lydia hears someone walk into her chambers.

Lydia opens her eyes.

It's not Kira.

Stiles stands at the foot of her bed, a warm light glowing in his eyes.  He's clutching a small cloth, in which a small bottle of fine whiskey is expertly bundled.  He carries a small bag of flowers, imported lime blossoms, and yellow roses in full, glorious bloom.

Lydia sits up, and examines his eyes.  He looks unsure, delicate, as if he's on the cusp on something monumentous.  Every inch of him betrays caution, fear, uncertainty.  And yet, deeper still, buried in the curves of his lips, the golden whiskey color of his eyes, the constellations mapped across his skin, there is hope, rememberance, adoration.

It fills Lydia up to her throat, and she suddenly finds that she can't breathe.

"I-i," Stiles starts, licking his lips, before clearing his throat.  "I brought you something."

"I see."  Lydia can hear herself speaking, as if from another world.

"May I sit?"

Lydia nods.

The bed creaks under Stiles' weight, and the sheets rustle as he sets down his burdens.  Somewhere, Lydia knows she should cover up, she's wearing naught but a nightgown, but something louder tells it's fine.  Lydia is safe with Stiles.

"Why do you send me flowers?" Lydia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Stiles looked down at the mattress.  "It's the only way I can talk with you.  The only thing I can say that no one else can take away."

"Oh."

Stiles reaches out a hand, his fingertips trembling in anticipation as they brush against Lydia's hair.  Lydia leans into the touch, leans into him.

"Do you mind if I braid your hair?"

Lydia shakes her head.

Stiles' hands are gentle, pulling at curls softly, yet firmly, twisting them around the blossoms in his bag.  Soon, a veritable cornucopia swirls around her head, filling the air with rose perfume, a faint lime undertone, and Stiles' lingering honey-dew touch.

"Do you remember that first night I went into the village?"  Lydia asked.

"How could I forget?"

"That was the night Peter attacked me."

Stiles stayed quiet, but Lydia pressed on.  Stiles should know.

"You saved me."

Another moment of silence.

"I saw something, that night.  As I lay on the brink of death, I saw something important."

Lydia swallowed thickly, and Stiles tugged at her hair reassuringly as he made his way down her back.

"My grandmother...my lady-in-waiting, Meredith...they used to tell me about the Morrighan, our old goddess of death, who came before her daughters in their time of need, and called them 'banshee.' She came as a raven, the White Raven."

Stiles' fingers stroked the back of her neck, and Lydia shivered, the chills traveling down her spine to pool in her sore thighs, easing away the pain.

"That night, when I almost died, I saw the White Raven."

Stiles stopped, momentarily, and brushed a lock of hair away from Lydia's ear.

"Lydia..." he whispered, and reached over her shoulder to cup her chin.  Finally, Lydia looked at him, looked Stiles right in the eyes.  They were perfect mirrors of mead, shimmering with warmth, and understanding, and  _so much love_ Lydia hardly knew how he could bear it.  Her throat filled up again, and suddenly, Lydia was filled with want.  She wanted to feel that love, she wanted to take up his burdens, and stagger under the weight of every treasured feeling living hidden in his eyes.  Stiles loved Lydia, and Lydia wanted to love him back.

But she wasn't Lydia.

Not really.

"That's not my name."

Stiles waited.

"Líadan Máirtín.  My name is Líadan Máirtín."

"Líadan," Stiles whispered, his voice carrying the accent so perfectly Lydia could agrdly stand it, and suddenly his lips where on hers, and she could taste the way he said her name, the way he purred into her very being, and Lydia was in love.

That was her first kiss.

It was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Red carnations: My heart aches for you  
> Lime blossoms: fornication  
> Yellow roses: infidelity, intense emotion, undying love
> 
> Commentcommentcommentcommentcommkudoskudoskudoskudoskudoskudoskudoskupleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleas


	10. What Is Done Can Never Be Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of Stydia, but a lot of plot. May be a bit rushed, but starting to wind down.

Lydia can't stay anymore.

Jackson is too harsh, and the castle is too lonely.  Everything is cold, and the stone echoes echoes with the loss of Meredith, of Aiden, of Allison.

Lydia hates England.

So she goes home.

* * *

Lydia's mother welcomes her with open arms.  The castle is busy and alive, and Lydia can hear the sea, pounded its greetings.

Even Stiles is there.

He comes after two months, in a small carriage, pulled by an old nag.

Lydia's mother doesn't say anything.

* * *

One month after Stiles comes, he leaves.  Lydia gets to say goodbye from a distance, with a soft envelope, with an intricate sketch of a flower; a black tulip.

Lydia sees him smile from her window, and returns it in secret.

There is more than one way to rule the world, afterall.

* * *

The Maírtins recieve a message, from the Scottish lord, Derek Hale.  He thanks them for the mead.

Lydia smiles.

* * *

Time passes, and Lydia's web grows.  Supporters in Wales, in Scotland, even England whisper their promises, and Lydia knows.

It really is time to return to London.

She writes three pages to Stiles and the Stilinskis.

As an afterthought, she writes to Jackson.

He doesn't really have a choice whether or not to accept her, so she sets off as soon as he responds.

Scott McCall is there to drive her.

"Is there news?" Lydia asks, all nonchalance and patient temper.

Scott is hesitant, but talks all the same.

Jackson's father, the King, is angry.  Too much money goes to the Polish liquor merchants, to the French vessels in the Channel.  Jackson will soon drink away the countries fortune, his Majesty declares.  

Jackson thinks it is all talk.  His father would never disown him.

Kira disagrees.

So does Scott.

So does Stiles.

Lydia teases Scott about Kira, merciless in her fluttery words and wriggling fingers.  Scott blushes for hours.

Privately, Lydia plots.

That had always been her favorite part.

* * *

At dinner, Lydia stops taking wine.  It is a great relief.  She hates wine.

She had never noticed how much his Highness drank; more than the entire Stilinski clan put together.

Lydia doesn't exactly keep this too herself.

Jackson is furious.

The King is pleased.

One evening, when Jackson is to drunk to sit up, let alone stand, Lydia and Malia whisper together.  The next day, Lydia announces that Irish liquor is cheaper than French; perhaps they ought to order more of it.

The King agrees.

Jackson scowls.

Two weeks later at dinner, mead is served in thick wood chalaces, and Lydia sips at it with relish.  The King, ever aware, mimics her, taking small sips of the strong golden brew.

Jackson, being Jackson, does not notice such distinctions.  He downs three cups in an hour.

Lydia supposed she had neglected to mention mead was cheaper because, technically, you didn't have to buy as much to get the same rush.

Too late now.

Jackson sways in his chairs, reeking so strongly it almost puts Lydia off mead forever.  Another small gulp, and she's apologizing to every god she knows for blasphemy.

He flirts with the maids.  He flirts with Malia when the King brings her out to thank her for the meal (it was exceptionally delicious).  Lydia suspects he even flirted with his mother.

Not with Lydia, though.

She's far too clever for that.

The King is livid.

The next week, Jackson is packed off to Svotland, to oversee the troublesome Hale territory.

Lydia stays behind.

Derek Hale is all to eager to rebel against Jackson.  Indeed, Lydia suspects he would have done it even if she'd ordered compliance.  There's only so much power can do.

She sends Jackson a single blossom, a peak inside her locked vault of a heart.

A birds-foot trefoil.

The next day, she tells the King to pull out of the village, and take the fight to the woods.  Desperate, he does so, and Derek vanishes with a select number of his men, leaving only confused English soldiers holding sticks.

Lydia spins it like a victory, brushing over the disappearance of Jackson.

The King thanks her for her advice, for she doubtlessly saved his armies.  He openly accepts that Jackson started the rebellion to win back his fathers favor.  He mentions she'd make a great leader someday.

When Lydia receives Jackson's severed hands and feet, Malia buries in the garden.

Stiles comes up to her chambers that night.

The King, for all his wisdom, doesn't notice.

* * *

His Majesty makes Lydia his heir.

There aren't exactly many options.

That evening, he dies after drinking tea made from begonia root.

Lydia is queen now.

Stiles bows before her when Malia sends him up.

Lydia smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Black tulip: power  
> Birds-foot trefoil: revenge  
> Begonia: beware
> 
> One more chapter!*
> 
> *Commentcommentcomment


	11. Queen of Britain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia is coronated.  
> Stiles comes.  
> All is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been fun  
> Warning, implied sex  
> Take care of yourself, y'all!

Everyone comes to Lydia's coronation.

It would be rude not to.

In the months following the death of the King, Lydia had done all she could to win over her people.

Suffice to say, it had worked.

What remained of the Welsh monarchy was there, the Irish nobility, Scottish lords, and even common people traveled from far and wide to glimpse the mysterious Queen Lydia.

French lords came, too.  Isaac, ever unchanged, sat to their left.

Her Japanese tutors had seats within the church in exchange for their loyalty.  Scott sat beside Kira, their hands linked together comfortably.  Scott absent-mindedly ran a thumb over Kira's wedding ring.

Lydia took it all in.

Her hair was woven with apple blossoms and arbutus flowers, and lush robes of crimson and gold.

Still, all the gold in the world could never compare to the warm-honey glow of Stiles' eyes.

No one knew who he was.  He was her escort, her loved, but few would be able to place his face in such a simple suit.

"Are you ready?" Stiles murmured.

Lydia grinned eagerly, and nodded.

The two stepped out of the carriage.

The Archbishop of Canterbury stood before the grandios church, waiting impatiently.  Lydia rolled her eyes privately; she had always found him rather droll.

Crowds of onlookers stared in awe as Lydia and Stiles made their way to the church doors.  A couple trembling fingers reached over to touch her hair, stroke her dress, snatch at her flowers.  Lydia smiled happily.

The Archbishop seemed to have vanished.

How infuriating.

But right now, all she could think of was Stiles, and his soft hands, and his starry freckles, and how  _long_ she had waited for this day.

It wasn't like her wedding.  At her wedding, every word had ramg ouout clearly in her head, as if she were writing them down in a frenzied attempt to remember them.  Here, words and hymns flowed through her mind like a river; here, then gone again, to fast to grasp at meaning.  Lydia basked in it the smooth rhythm of words, one after the other, and naturally as you pleased.

Lydia supposed she preferred the haze to the reality.

The annointment was warm and smooth on her skin, and shivers ran along her spine.  Lydia lost herself briefly in its subtle scent, and found herself thinking it was rather like Stiles.

The thought made her tremble with giddiness.

After the ceremony, she snd Stiles did not stay for dinner.  Kira and Scott laughed when they saw Lydia tug Stiles away from his increasingly hostile conversation with Derek Hale, dragging him up the stairs to her rooms.

Lydia pulled him into a blinding kiss, and relished in the smell of oak and the taste of whiskey, his whiskey, lingering on both on their lips.  This kiss is not soft, or gentle, because Lydia is not gentle.  Lydia is a woman who knows what she wants, and Stiles is more than happy to give it to her.

That night, Lydia laughs, and she gasps, and she begs for mercy, but they both know its only because she never _knew_. 

A wave of anger towards Jackson bubbles up, but Stiles crushes it with a breathless kiss.

The next morning, Lydia wakes up to find Stiles collapsed against her stomach, and if still kneeling, still bowing.

Lydia smiles.

Its better than she could have hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower Meanings:  
> Appleblossoms: Preference  
> Arbutus: you are the only one i love


End file.
